


[hedgehog]

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Flirting, Fluff, Genderbending, Genderswap, hair adoration, joan is so soft omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 14:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: These days there are significant changes in Joan's lifestyle. One, she remains pointedly longer in bed than just six am; two, there is hair she adores more than her own rugged one in the mornings.





	[hedgehog]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucretialikestoread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucretialikestoread/gifts).



> bd;djdfh;fdfd teeth rotting femlock fluff based on 221booksinthetardis' gorgeous art. see the end notes for that.
> 
> originally posted here
> 
> http://221booksinthetardis.tumblr.com/post/169697743588/lovely-wssh-watson-wrote-me-this-piece-after

Joan is not one for lingering in bed. Military routine and self-willed discipline have made her get up at six the latest—the latest!—no matter what period of her life. 

She likes to keep her hair short: it’s easier to manage not just in the mornings but generally, too. And she likes the associations that come with it, short hair ruffled and pointing every which way: sex hair, her favourite, the look of hands having gone rogue on her. Sherlock usually doesn’t quite agree, which is unsurprising. A docile hedgehog, Sherlock had sleepily mumbled into her neck once, not sex hair. You’re a docile hedgehog. Joan, bristling inwardly, had grumbled her discontent against Sherlock’s head. Under Sherlock’s warmth and closeness, it hadn’t mattered one bit.

Awfully affectionate hedgehog with sex hair, maybe.

These days, though, there are significant changes in her lifestyle. One, she remains pointedly longer in bed than just six am; two, there is hair she adores more than her own rugged one in the mornings.

The reason, as it seems to be always, is Sherlock; Sherlock, and her impossible, impossible hair. On the rare mornings that Sherlock feels lazy or needy enough to snuggle, Joan wakes to her mouth full of frizzy hair. Draped over her, clinging like a human octopus, Sherlock breathes into her shoulder and just… rests.  Other mornings, when Sherlock is another kind of needy—and greedy—Joan wakes up to her own thighs wet and made of jelly, Sherlock’s head buried between them, her shock of hair both tingling and titillating against Joan’s sensitive skin. Those mornings she likes to remember: Sherlock’s hair, filthy and sticky, clinging to her cunt; Sherlock’s first scandalized then pleased noise as Joan leaned in to suck herself off Sherlock’s gorgeous hair.

Her favourite mornings are Sherlock bratty-clingy: when Sherlock is just  posh and haughty and condescending enough that Joan’s hand itches to slap her a little. Once shy and cautious in the face of Joan’s affections, Sherlock is now sly and coy; a damned fast learner, and an impressively careless blackmailer. 

She likes to look over her shoulder at Joan when she’s sitting up and Joan is still lying back in bed. Likes to sit up and tilt her head to the side so she can show off her cheekbone, her plump mouth; lets her head fall back, just a bit, so her hair tumbles down. Her damn, fucking gorgeous hair. Lying against her pale, strong back, over her bony, beautiful shoulder.

“Morning,” she likes to say, nonchalantly, a slight smirk on those lips, “you hedgehog.”

Pretending to be affronted, Joan rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes. The bratty routine. All right. Bring it on.” But she doesn’t move; she stays as she is, eyes not on Sherlock’s face but her hair.

Sherlock’s smirk winds tighter. She turns, bringing her face in full profile. “Aren’t we crabby this morning,” she teases, pleased. She reaches out to poke one elegant long finger into Joan’s shoulder. “Dreamt badly?”

“No,” Joan muttered , “just saw one stupidly pretty person way too early today.”

With that, catching Sherlock somewhat off guard, Joan reaches for her and yanks her down onto herself. Sherlock falls over her, bent down and supporting herself on her elbows, a glare on her face. “Joan,” she says in a threatening tone, but Joan just grins up at her, crooked and entirely besotted, cheeks flushed and eyebrows knitted. 

“You’re lovely,” Joan says into the space between their faces, quietly and quickly. “How can anyone be this lovely.”

Sherlock, still a tad cross, pretends to sniff. “Sweet words aren’t going to get you anywhere,” she says. She doesn’t move an inch, just keeps staring down  fixedly at Joan’s round, open face. “Hedgehog,” she adds, out of spite, but it lacks any heat at all.

“Okay,” Joan acquiesces without fight. Her hands travel up Sherlock’s arms, and without pause slide up into Sherlock’s hair, which frames Sherlock’s narrow face and tumbles down by the sides of Joan’s face. She cards her fingers into the thick volume of it, careful not to get stuck in between numerous tangles, and releases a sigh at the feeling of all those wild curls in between her own  stocky, inelegant fingers. What a contrast; long, slender, and perfect, Sherlock above her, and herself, broken, coarse, just a bit too rough. 

And more perfect, incredible still: that Sherlock lets her; that Sherlock remains there, close to her, and tilts her head to press back against Joan’s fingers. 

Sherlock, indulgent and warm, right here. “I like this side of you,” Sherlock confesses, lowly. “For once I’m not the obsessive one.”

Because she knows what it does to Joan, she shakes her head; her hair tickles Joan’s cheeks, slides messily through Joan’s fingers. Joan grins, a little lost, and clenches her hands to fist that gorgeous mane of hair. “Shut up,” she says, “shut up,” and she pulls Sherlock down until their breasts are pressed together, warm and soft and lovely, and she can kiss her affection into Sherlock’s cheeky, beautiful mouth. 

Sherlock, eyes sliding closed, makes a thick mmmhhhh against her. Her arms stretch, and her hands come up cradle Joan’s head: her fingers splay, raking through Joan’s short hair, slowly, gently, as if she loves feeling it just as much.

**Author's Note:**

> the fanart, drawn by 221booksinthetardis can be seen here.
> 
> http://221booksinthetardis.tumblr.com/post/169697743588/lovely-wssh-watson-wrote-me-this-piece-after


End file.
